As he walked on up toward the Histadrut Building, it occurred to him that this obsequious, overfed young man with the sausagelike fingers and starched shirt that had a grimy collar and cuffs was the same age as the son that Yael had got rid of two minutes away from here at some clinic in the Street of the Prophets. And he smiled sadly because, despite the skullcap and cantorial tenor voice, it was possible that an impartial observer could find a certain resemblance between him and that pudgy, grubby, smooth-talking young travel agent who was so eager to please. But could Yael feel any maternal affection for that bloated creature, with his murky blue eyes behind thick glasses and his porky-pink cheeks? Could she sit and knit him a blue woollen bonnet with a pompom bobbing on top? Could she link arms with him and let him choose spicy black olives for her in Mahane Yehuda Market? And how about you? Would you really feel the need occasionally to tuck a folded bill in his pocket? Or get the painters in for him? Which goes to prove that Yael was right. As always. She was born being right.

However, Fima thought wryly, it might have been a girl. A miniature Giulietta Masina with soft bright hair. She could have been named after his mother: Liza, or, in its Hebrew mutation, Elisheva. Although it is fairly certain Yael would have vetoed that.

A cold, bitter woman, he said to himself with surprise.

Was it really only your fault? Just because of what you did to her? Just because of the Greek promise that you didn’t keep and could not have kept and that no one could have kept? Once, next to Nina Gefen’s bed he saw an old translated novel, in a shabby paperback edition, called A Woman Without Love. Was it by François Mauriac? André Maurois? Alberto Moravia? He must ask Nina sometime if it was about a woman who did not find love or a woman who was incapable of love. The title could be taken either way. Though at the moment the difference struck him as insignificant. Only very rarely had he and Yael used the word “love.” With the possible exception of the period of the Greek trip, but at that time neither he nor the three girls had been particular about their choice of words.

Wains curled. And vanished.

As he crossed the road, there was a squeal of brakes. The van driver cursed Fima and shouted:

“You there, are you crazy?”

Fima considered, shuddered belatedly, and muttered sheepishly:

“I’m sorry. Really. Very sorry.”

The driver screamed:

“Damn half-wit: you’ve got more luck than sense.”